


Non Kisses

by thepeskyunicorn



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, non kisses, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 04:18:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5771017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepeskyunicorn/pseuds/thepeskyunicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James doesn’t kiss much.</p><p>(And how Q gets around that)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Non Kisses

James doesn’t kiss much.

Kisses are for marks, with their dangerously low dresses and eyeliner sharp enough to kill. They come in droves, faces blurring into a muddy palette, all receiving the same variations of his diluted love. But James is good at pretending, at smudging the lines with soft words and promises, so much so that he starts to believe it himself.

Q understands the complexity of putting your country before all, and the way it destroys you slowly but surely. He stops asking for kisses long ago, troubled by the way James’ face shutters and his masks sets in, unable to differentiate and enjoy. Everything becomes too practiced, too smooth, and the cheapness sticks to his tongue long after the encounters.

With the absence of vital intimacy, Q improvises, and begins a ritual of non kisses.

It starts with soft brushes against the back of hands, putting enhanced weapons and prototypes directly onto James’ hand rather than through an intermediary, fingers lingering longer than usual. James’ face will remain impassive, his stance professional as always, but Q can see the way his eyes soften and feels the soft brush of his thumb in reciprocation, glancing and feather-light. His heart warms, and if he spends an extra hour after work finalising the design for an exploding pen that day, nobody needs to know.

He repeats the touch when James returns from his missions, hiding his intense relief and glee under practiced nonchalance and sighs of despair over the scant remains of the weapons Bond manages to salvage. He expects a touch in return, maybe a smile or a nod of the head, but instead, James opts to tangle their fingers together, casually moving to block the view of their hands from the rest of Q branch, low tones promising to “see you later”. It astounds Q, this easy attraction they have, but he tries not to think too much into it.

And then there is the wrapping of arms around James’ torso the morning after, with a kiss pressed to the back of his neck, even though he’s not nearly as tall as the other man. James’ stays over now, sometimes, for takeout and company, which more often than not, leads to a night of passionate activities. It’s novel to wake up in his own bed, sleep warm with the scent of his lover pressed into the sheets and the smell of breakfast cooking. Cooking is a job that James has taken over, because they both agree that Q is absolutely horrible at it, even though it was ‘simply another form of chemistry’.

Still, Q loves eating whatever James makes, partially because it is _so good_ , and partially because he loves the way James looks at him, a genuine smile lilting the corner of his lips, whenever Q gobbles down everything on his plate.

The hug wasn’t premeditated; more of an impulse born from sleepiness and fuzzy feelings. Q had ambled out of his bedroom, and seeing James at the stoves, shirtless and cooking, circles his arms loosely around James’ waist, pressing his lips to the nape of his neck, nuzzling the soft hair. It’s a testament of the trust they have when James doesn’t so much flinch or try to tackle Q to the floor when he does that, but instead hums quietly and twists his head to plant an absent kiss on top of Q’s bedhead. Q relishes the easy acceptance of intimacy and hooks his chin on James’ shoulder, peering into the content of the pan and letting out a sound of surprise. Omelette and sausages, just the way he like it.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, burying his face in James’ neck to kiss his neck again, grinning widely at the vibration of James’ voice as he replies, “Someone’s got to feed you something other than tea and junk.”

His cats chose the moment to come complaining, winding their bodies around him, asking for their breakfast. Pushing himself away, Q pours kibble into their bowls and prepare tea for himself, welcoming the slow realisation he of just how horribly domestic it all looks. The thought only frightens him a little, but he opts to capture it and tuck it away, a memory to keep him warm when he is alone.

They don’t speak about the spontaneity of the moment, but Q notices the way James stands closer now, fingers tangling with his whenever he drops by Q branch, light touches to his hips and wrists that leaves him shivering with anticipation. It’s refreshing, this alternative to a proper kiss, and it only serves to deepen their feelings instead of diluting it, as Q had initially thought. And if Q were a more daring man, he would identify the extreme fondness he feels for the man as something akin to love.

\----------

Q acknowledges the fact that his relationship with James Bond, as undefined as it is, is fragile and unpredictable. The replacement rate of 00 agents is high, and death is an inevitability on the field. Emotional ties are weaknesses meant to be exploited, and feelings for a another is a surefire way to get you killed.

But Q consoles himself with every mission James complete, every impossible situation he manages to get out of, every times he comes back from the dead, that they are the exception. It is the only reality he refuses to face, and he ignores every dreaded thought and scenario that comes to him when James is away.

\----------

It was supposed to be a routine mission in Mumbai, a track and report that he is involved in, a voice in James’ ear to guide him to the location of a small group of terrorists responsible for several bombings throughout the Middle East.

James is currently settles in the building opposite his targets, broad shoulder in a well tailored suit clearly visible from the security camera Q hacked into as he settled into standard position. Q types away furiously, entering data into the system while James kept up a constant chatter on nothing in particular, voice warm and comforting in his ear.

It is moments like this that makes Q the happiest, both of them in their element, complementing each other in a familiar push pull of action and words, both of them working quickly and efficiently. Q takes a second to pause in his typing to smile, the squirmy feeling that he has come to associate with James dancing low in his belly.

There is a flash in the security footage, and then everything goes to hell.

It’s an explosion, Q registers, bright enough that it has him flinching as he watches it happen on his screen. He stares in horror, bile rising and limbs locked, as the building James in in collapses, dust and debris wiping out the vision of the camera. The man is nowhere in sight and worst still, with the explosion as close to him as it is, he’s probably dead.

Maybe not quite. The harsh breathing and soft grunts of pain coming from the earpiece snaps Q out of his trance, pushing him into autopilot, fingers tapping out commands and voice barking out coordinates and ordering in evac and medical. He pulls up as much intel as he can, analysing from all angles and scanning the screen over and over, cursing himself for his blindness. He should have seen the bomb, he should have made James run, he should have been able to contain it. But now the man he loves is grievously hurt and the blame is on him. Q replays the blast, scanning another screen for signs of James, panic cramping his hands and shortening his breath.

“Bond.” he says urgently, hating the way his voice cracks. “James, please, hang in there. We’re going to get you out.”

No answer. The sudden rush of static hints to him that the connection must have been terminated. Q slams his fist on his worktable, blinking back his tears. Stupid of him to have drifted off. Stupid to think it could last. James might have gone through the impossible, but by the time backup arrives, he might be long dead. Q hangs his head, helpless in his desk, body trembling and mind whirling.

Before him, the screen replays the pain over and over.

\----------

It took exactly five hours, twenty two minutes, and eighteen seconds for them to pull James out of the debris. Q knows; he counted every terrifying, hopeless second of it. He hates being helpless, stuck behind the screen, no more tangible than the distant eye through a security camera.

Moneypenny finds him at his desk at hour three, eyes manic and burning as he shouts into the screen, trying to push the evac team to go faster, fingers trembling and flexing, aching with the feel of phantom limbs in the spaces between his.

She forces him away from the desk, pushing him to refill his mug of tea and to take a breather while she helps him monitor the situation. He eventually ends up hovering over her shoulder, unable to tear himself away as they extricate James from the rubble.

He falls asleep soon after they load him on the helicopter, a brief “He’s alive” all he needs to hear for him to collapse into an exhausted pile in the corner of his office. He wakes to find himself on a sofa with blankets, courtesy of Moneypenny, and sprints all the way to Medical when he realises that they should be here by now.

It’s hard to reconcile the fact that the man before him, tangled in tubes and bandages, is actually James fucking Bond, the lucky bastard. He looks too pale, too fragile, but whatever deal with the devil that got him out of so many dangerous situation seem to get him out of the collapsed building alive, albeit with a few broken bones.

Q is not one for sentimentalism and romantics. He scoffs at those who sit by the hospital bedside, devoted longing hoping to be paid off when the patient wakes up and acknowledges them as the first person they see. But it doesn’t stop him from seeking out James’ hand, tracing his palm lines and circling his wrist, anything to ground him, to distract from the fact that Q almost lost him today. It’s terribly unnecessary and unlike him, and apparently the staff at Medical thinks so too, because they chase him out after visiting hours, forcing him to return to his too big flat with everything too programmed for a sharing of two for one to feel lonely.

Q sleeps in a miserable heap on the futon, skin still sticky with sweat and clothes stinking of fear and misery.

\----------

James is discharged two weeks after the accident, heavily bandaged and bad tempered. He is immediately told that he will be benched until he gets better, and now spends most of his time sulking in the corner of Q’s office and pushing himself too hard during physical therapy.

Q doesn’t baby him; he’s sure James will death glare him into stopping if he ever tries to, but that doesn’t stop him from forcing James to take his medication on time and making him sit whenever he stands for too long.

James wouldn’t hear a word of Q’s apology, insisting that he was never in the wrong, and that there was no way anyone could have anticipated the bomb. It was too small, too subtle, to have been picked up without prior warning. This only pushes Q to try and develop a new equipment, one designed to hopefully pick up any trace of explosive in a thirty meter radius. He only ever does the design for the prototype out of James’ sight, of course, but he suspects that James already knows about it, but is too gracious to say anything.

Things go back to normal, more or less, but now James takes the opportunity of his medical leave to hover around Q while he works, hand warm and heavy at the small of his back when Q stands, or massaging the knot in his shoulder when he gets too tense. It’s new, this slightly territorial claiming James does, but Q relishes it, leaning into every touch with a smile.

\----------

They still don’t kiss, not often anyway, but Q is more than okay with it, because between the way James speaks his name, reverent and soft, in their private alcove, and the deliberate placing of hands on waists and shoulders, Q finds enough evidence of love to last him for a lifetime.

And, at least for now, it is more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first attempt in this fandom and since I'm a sucker for non kisses (i wrote a much shorter one for the history boys on the same subject), I figure I should wring it for all its worth.
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](myskittlesexploded.tumblr.com)


End file.
